A Bientôt
by EvanescingSky
Summary: As the French Revolution rages, Francis and Marianne suddenly find themselves implicated as conspirators with the monarchy and very quickly, their luck turns for the worse.


The sound of the crowd was deafening, but Marianne could barely hear it over the sound of her own heartbeat. Even if she could've run, she didn't think her legs would move. The sound of them out there, shouting, swearing, chanting…it chilled her blood to the very core. When Francis looked over, she was shaking. A thousand and two hundred or not, physically they were both just twenty two and right now, stripped of her wigs and make-up and jewelry, Marianne looked even younger. She looked up and met his gaze; Francis saw his own terrified blue gaze staring back at him.

"They're screaming for our blood, Francis," she said softly. Her hands shifted, the rope around them scratching at her porcelain skin, already rubbed red raw from their imprisonment.

"So it seems, chérie," he said grimly, glancing out. It was hard to see anything past the massive wooden frame of a stage set up in the square, but more and more people kept coming—the place would be overrun soon. For a moment he was silent, watching the ripples moving through the crowd as it ebbed and flowed like a living organism. Then he looked back at Marianne. "I must say, you pull of 'starved prisoner' very well," he said approvingly. It didn't work—she didn't smile.

"I haven't had time to starve yet," she said hollowly. Her gown—a simple thing that was either supposed to be or had once been white, ratty and fraying around the edges now—hung limply off her frame. Her words were true though; they hadn't been in custody long enough to starve. They hadn't been well-fed though, which Francis was indignant about.

There had been much debate about what was to be done with them, something either of them expected. They had opposed the violent end the monarchy met—Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI may have been foolish, incompetent rulers, but they had never intentionally been cruel—but they had absolutely supported the rights of the people. They wanted what was best for France! What else could they possibly want? So it came as something of a shock to them to learn they were being implicated in the sudden turn of events. It was an entirely new idea; no one else had ever believed they would do anything to harm France.

But in the eyes of the revolutionaries, Marianne and Francis were bourgeoisie. They lived with the royalty, they lounged in Versailles and wore fine clothes and expensive perfumes, they ate their fill of the most succulent, choice foods in France—for all intents and purposes, they were nobles. Short of owning land and possessing real titles, they were French upper class. There was really nothing either of them could say to deny this—they were always seen with the upper class and seldom elsewhere. None of the generals or men whom they had fought with spoke up for them, or if they did, it wasn't enough to change the minds of the raging revolutionaries.

They had been kept in the palace in Paris along with the royal family for a time, but sometime after the execution of the king and queen (followed by the dauphin, at the tender age of eight, to both their tearful sorrow), they were moved to the Conciergerie—the same prison they had kept the queen in. For two weeks they had languished there and now they were here, back on the streets of Paris. But how different it was this time.

Never had Francis felt unwelcome in his own country, never had the people been so utterly turned against them. Even as he spoke to Marianne, he could hear the chanting for their acquaintance with Madame Guillotine.

Poor Francis, Marianne thought. Though she couldn't look any better. He usually looked so poised and collected, so calm and in control, that slight smirk resting on his lips, a glass of wine balanced between his dexterous fingers, the latest fashion adorning his body. But not now. He too, had been stripped of all his things and was dressed in throw-away peasant wear. Left without personal hygiene for the past week, he had several days' beard growth on his face. It was strange to see him with facial hair; usually he was impeccably clean-shaven.

Again, he tried to bring himself back to reality, but it was difficult. They were both dazed; they had fallen so fast. Had it only been a few months prior that they had been discussing theories of Plato and Aristotle as if they had all the time in the world? Had it been less than a lifetime ago that they had both been complaining of the ennui of Versailles as they glided across the water in a boat pushed by one of the servants? It couldn't have been so recently that they had taunted England over their latest colonial acquisitions, could it?

But when Francis counted back the days, it really had only been a few months. A few precious months that had changed their lives forever.

"They can't kill us, petite," he said to Marianne with a little smile, trying to encourage her. Francis could always bring a smile to Marianne's face; they were a comfort to each other in that way. After all, in some ways, they were one in the same. It was hatefully annoying to those who had to watch them so in sync with each other, finish each other's sentences and having whole conversations without saying a word.

"I think they can, Francis," she said softly, a tremor going through her voice. Her eyes were such a hopeless void, Francis practically felt his knees go weak with desire to give up right then and there, just looking. "They're our people. If they kill us…do we come back?"

"An interesting question, ma mie," he said, looking thoughtful, as if he were actually going to think about it. "I suppose it depends on how we classify death and whether or not our apparent inhumanity changes what we face."

"If we face death as humans," she said. "Assuming what we know about death and the beyond as constant and our reactions to that as the only changeable variable."

"Then I should presume, if our own people decide there is no need for us…" he trailed off. "We exist for them."

"And if we aren't for them, there's no reason for us," she went on.

"So it would seem we may genuinely face the end, ma doux mie," he said simply. There was nothing but the sound of their own breaths; hers and Francis'. She could hear them both and it seemed to her that each of her breaths was pulled as if from beneath a blacksmith's anvil, so much effort did it take her. There had to be something pressing on her chest; what else could cause such a weight? Francis reached out and took her hand as best he could. He gave her that gentle smile that was the real Francis—not that façade he so often projected to the world. He was much gentler and kinder at heart than all that. Sometimes, Marianne thought, Francis was much kinder than her. He didn't deserve this, he didn't deserve to be turned on by his people or be put through such horror. She tried to smile back, but it wobbled and her eyelashes quivered for a moment. She pushed back the threat of tears and rubbed Francis' hand lightly.

He could still feel the softness of Marianne's hand from all the creams she had used on them. It didn't matter how many compliments she got, how many men and women alike were in awe of her beauty, she would always strive to make it better. He understood her in that; he was the same way. He felt a sudden wave of protectiveness over her and wished he could take her away from all this, send her away to Madrid or Florence or even New York—some place she would be safe. Even just to draw her into his arms now, but he couldn't.

The crowd had doubled in size since Marianne last looked. Now it was flowing around the stage, the bellowing louder than ever. People pumped their fists in the air, waved flags and farming implements, shrieked for the death of these beings that had caused them so much pain. They had no idea—none of them did. They could never, would never know how Francis and Marianne had bled for them, how they had endured utter agony for them, how they had weathered century after century for them. Watching everyone they loved die, facing war after war, crawling through plague after famine, hauling their nation on their backs. And they had managed to make such a name! France was one of the most powerful countries in the world, the second largest empire that had ever been seen! They were the proud grandchildren of Rome, movers of the world, a lion in politics and a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. But none of that mattered now. All their work, all their pain was for naught. Humans could never understand their sacrifice.

Francis' hand was yanked roughly from Marianne's and she almost cried out. He tried to say something to comfort her, but his voice died in his throat and he couldn't make any sound. His panicked gaze met hers for a moment and she moved as if to go after him, but one of the others caught her elbow and jerked her back.

"Francis," she whispered, shaking worse than ever.

"Marianne, ma mie…" He was urged up the steps; they creaked beneath his footsteps. Marianne's view was blocked and she strained this way and that, trying to see although she thought she might be sick if she did.

Looking out over the square, Francis saw their people—the same people who had always been there!—pulsating through the space. It seemed that all of Paris—perhaps all of France—was trying to be here to witness the event of the year. They were so angry…the sheer fury in their faces, the bloodlust, the seething desire for vengeance shocked Francis. Did they truly believe he and Marianne had intended for all their suffering? That they had orchestrated the oppression of the monarchy? They had no say—less even than their people! The people could change things—Marianne and Francis were bound to the will of the country. He felt cold and the wind that blew through the still air of the city had nothing to do with it.

"We have only ever tried to do what was best for you," he was saying to the thrumming mass of people below. "We have only ever wanted the best for France." He was pushed to his knees, his neck pressed against the wood. Those veins hummed with life; Marianne had felt it just this morning when they sat curled against each other in their prison cell—she had felt the life in his veins! Hot, humming, vibrant life!

The block was rough beneath his throat; he could feel the groove in it where the blade had struck true, time and time again. Looking down, he could see the basket below. It was darker in the center; there were some stains that couldn't be gotten out. It seemed to him to be miles beneath him; his head spun and if he'd been on his feet he would've stumbled, maybe fallen. Marianne would have caught him. Sweet, sweet Marianne, whose tender cheeks and gentle hands harbored such simple hopes behind her ornate, arrogant projection. To be loved, to love, to see beauty and revel in it. How he wished he could've spared her this ugliness.

She managed to catch his gaze at last as he craned his neck to look back at her and he cast her one more little smile.

"A bientôt, Marianne," he said.

"A bientôt , Francis," she replied. At first she was choked up and could barely speak, but her terror that he wouldn't hear her overcame her inability to speak and she nearly shouted it at him. "Wherever and whenever that may be. A bientôt! A bientôt! A—" She kept saying it until there was the telltale wet thud and she heard the sound of liquid hitting the pavement below. Her stomach heaved and if she had eaten anything that day, she would've been sick, but as it were, her body just pushed her through the motions, unable to come up with anything to spew forth. When she had stopped convulsing, they had cleared the platform for her and she stepped up in her own turn.

Her head stayed high, her chin tilted up to catch the eyes of the people around her despite the violent shaking of her legs. They hit the wood hard, driving splinters into her knees, but she didn't even feel it. She couldn't feel anything. The wooden block in front of her was soaked with Francis' blood and her body threatened to go into dry heaves again.

"I'm sorry," she cried to them in an unsteady voice. "We have failed you and for that we are so sorry." Her eyes were glassy, but no tears fell; her throat closed up and she couldn't say anything else. Someone grabbed her hair and pushed her down so her neck was against the wood. Francis' blood was still warm against her skin and her arms and legs were tucked awkwardly beneath her to hold the position right.

"A bientôt, Francis," she whispered, not daring to look down to the basket on the cobbled street below. She heard three things then: the release of the catch, the whistle of the blade and her own breath, which to her, seemed to take an age. The feel of the oxygen filling her lungs for the last time, tugging past the cracks in her dry lips, coursing down her throat to inflate her chest. Before it could rush out again, everything went dark.

* * *

AN: Notes! There are some important ones here.

This was inspired by the Hetalia strip of the same name, where it occurred to me that if the Parisians know who France is, they must've known then too and thus this was created. So what does it mean?

A Bientôt = translates roughly to "see you soon" or something similar  
Ma mie = An affectionate pet name that translates literally to "my female friend" but also means "my dear/love". Something of an evolved contraction of "mon amie"

The Conciergerie was the prison where Marie Antoinette was held prior to her execution.

On Francis' beard: He didn't begin to sport his trademark beard until the late 18th century, so it would've only been around this time he started going unshaven, hence Marianne's remark


End file.
